


the eyes are the window to the soul (or whatever they say)

by rainbowbadges (characterizer)



Series: my g-d ! these bitches gay ! good for them [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Drabble, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Slash, can be read as purely best friends forever tbh, hinted - Freeform, just two dudes sitting by a fire, thats literally it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/characterizer/pseuds/rainbowbadges
Summary: “That doesn’t make it anything.”Jaskier squints at him over the flames. His fingers are still deftly oiling the pegs of his lute, strings untwined from them for this purpose, even while he doesn’t necessarily pay attention to the task. “It seems like something to me.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: my g-d ! these bitches gay ! good for them [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888618
Comments: 8
Kudos: 128





	the eyes are the window to the soul (or whatever they say)

**Author's Note:**

> what is jaskier? the world may never know. also it seems my fic style is just plotless drabbles of guys bein dudes. sorry about that.

The firelight casts Jaskier’s face into warm but stark relief, turning his eyes near gold. Geralt’s mind casts to a different world as he watches him; some separate universe where Jaskier was mutated and bent like him. Some unpleasant feeling tracks down his spine at the thought and so he throws it away. The fire pops and embers drift into the air between them before Jaskier’s eyes lift to meet Geralt’s, pupils flashing like discs of silver for a sheer moment. He smiles in that winsome way of his, “What?” 

“Hmm.” Geralt thinks on it for a dry second, “Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing, you just had to think about it.” 

“That doesn’t make it anything.”

Jaskier squints at him over the flames. His fingers are still deftly oiling the pegs of his lute, strings untwined from them for this purpose, even while he doesn’t necessarily pay attention to the task. “It seems like something to me.” 

Geralt sees the firmness that has settled into his gaze, and knows. Jaskier, once he has sunken his teeth into something, is tenacious and steadfast. If he wants to talk about something then by Melitele it will be spoken of. Geralt sighs through his nose resignedly. “Why did you decide to follow me?” 

Jaskier snorts like it’s obvious. “You are an endless source of muse, my friend. Muse is any poet’s lifeblood.” As he tilts his head his eyes flash again, in the dark. “Great hunter and journeyed man that you are.” 

“Hmm.” The fire pops and spits more embers, but all is quiet again. The early summer night is warm and clear with a pleasant breeze raking through the trees. Crickets gossip to one another, and in the distance a nocturnal bird calls out with a high and enthusiastic fluctuating whoop. The river is a quiet but audible presence somewhere four or five meters behind Jaskier. No predator scent crosses Geralt’s nose tonight, at least not where he sits in the wind. 

“Why do you ask?” Jaskier’s voice is curious but soft; those clever eyes flick back up to Geralt once before he focuses back on restringing his lute. 

“Hm?” 

A huff of laughter, amused for a reason Geralt cannot discern. “Why do you ask about why I follow you?”

“You’ve never been afraid of me.”

“No, I suppose not.” 

“Why?” 

“You’ve never struck me as anything but kind.” A string twings when plucked and is found suitably taut. Shadows hug the forehead under Jaskier’s fringe, and he gazes back up at Geralt through it. 

There is no field of tension in the air, or suitable aura for serious conversation. It’s just them sitting together in the night as they do every night, unwinding for sleep. This routine just one of the many they’ve made together on the shared road. “Kind?” Geralt doesn’t scoff, only inquiring, mind half on the topic and half dipping into the ideas of one day when these routines will be broken. As all good things come to an end. “I punched you the first day we knew each other.”

Jaskier laughs easily, teeth glinting in the light. “I deserved it.” He pulls in a breath through his nose. “It’s all in the eyes, anyways. You are so big and tough, but you have the softest eyes.” 

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and tries not to look baffled by this. Nobody has ever claimed his mutant eyes soft, or kind. They’re a mark of what he is, and a tool of his trade. Changed just like the rest of him to mould him into a better predator, a more efficient hunter. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Jaskier maintains his smile.

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve said something completely stupid.” 

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” 

Both of his eyebrows are lifted now, “I’m really not.”

“See, like that!”

“That’s just my face.”

Jaskier scoffs playfully, “I know your face.” 

“Hmm. So you do.” Geralt snorts softly through his nose and nearly finds himself having to suppress more than a bare smile. He casts his gaze up to the moon and finds it nearing apex, and knows the fatigue on Jaskier’s face when he sees it, despite his playful mood. 

“There, that’s a better expression.” Jaskier sounds smug with himself for making the ever stoic witcher show his amusement. “Shows off your soft eyes better.” 

Geralt huffs once more and starts to bank the fire as Jaskier puts away his lute, now fully stringed and tuned to his liking. “Go to bed, Jaskier.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you guess what the bird i mentioned is you’ll get a prize (an internal feeling of accomplishment in these trying times)! if you can guess what jaskier is then i will be absolutely surprised and congratulate you personally. anyways i hope you liked it, thanks for reading.


End file.
